Stealing the Groom

Twenty Seven

Note: Check out the song (Love is the Drug by the Bryan Ferry Orchestra) to get in the mindset I was in when I wrote this! ---------->

XXVII: Love is the Drug

MY BUSINESS DINNER with Neal Chamberlain went, for lack of another word, horribly wrong. The man who seemed so polite and charming (at first anyway) ended up being a sexist pig who was more interested in getting in my pants than featuring my art in his gallery.

By the time the night came to an end, I'd lost count of the times I caught him blatantly checking out my rack and as soon as the check was paid, I bolted.

Now after a good night's sleep and an interesting afternoon with Simone in which she convinced me to help out in some charity gala the following night, I stood fidgeting with the chiffon fabric draped over my body. The dress was beautiful: the heavy beaded bodice and gold metal fringe reaching all the way to my knees looked stunning on the mannequin, and I bought it hoping I could do it justice. On my feet were dulled black leather T-strap heels and around my neck a mass of black cultured pearls.

Attempting, and failing, to fix a strand of hair away from my face while wearing black satin opera gloves I gave a sigh. Just as I was about to give up and rip one of the gloves off to deal with the stubborn curl, I felt a presence behind me.

"Here," Max said as he stepped forward. "Allow me." I froze as his fingertips clasped over the strand, and with his chocolate eyes burning into my own indigo ones, he slowly eased the hair back into place.

"Is it good?" I asked after a second. He nodded but didn't step away. A flicker of recognition flashed across his face as he opened his mouth to reply.

"Your hair. I haven't seen you wear it up like this since..."

"Yeah, not since...the Prescott wedding." We stood motionless, my eyes starring into his as I felt myself slip into the memory of that May in 2007.

***

FOR THE THOUSANDTH  time tonight, I blew the stupid strand of hair out of my face. I hated up-dos, mainly because the heavy weight of my thick hair always fought against the dozens of pins holding it up until it all came tumbling down.

Wedding receptions were, in my opinion, the most boring form of social events. Everyone has fake smiles plastered to their faces, even as they gossip about the life expectancy of the newlyweds' so  called eternal love.

Deciding that I'd had enough of the boring music from the string quartet and the same old conversations, I wondered away from my table ignoring the look Dexter flashed me. Once I was away from all the noise, I felt my tense muscles relax and my lungs fill with air.

However, my second of peace ended when I accidentally ran into one of the waiters. He stumbled but expertly held his grip on the tray filled with appetizers.

"I'm terribly sorry," the instinctive phrase tumbled out past my lips. I kept my gaze low on the floor as I said, "Excuse me."

"Elle?" the waiter said. The familiar voice caused my head to snap, almost painful, up to lock gazes with his beautiful brown eyes.

"Max! W-What are you doing here?" my eyes swept around the room, anywhere but him as I nervously bit down on my lip.

"You know," he said with a shrug and held up his tray. "Last minute job."

"Oh." I said lamely. The awkward mood in the air felt suffocating, but I was happy to see him. At least this would be my last memory of him. It would replace the one I had of when I left him standing on the sidewalk outside of The Brew, heartbroken and wet from the pouring rain.